


Come Back To Me

by WahlBuilder



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigismund doesn’t believe that his lord is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back To Me

[ _The following text was found in the debris of an Astartes ship, presumably Black Templar ship, that emerged from the warp in 107.M39 in the [CENSURED] subsector, near the [CENSURED] system._ ]

***

Time was of no value anymore, days blurred into each other, into endless haze of rage and fury which he wrapped around himself like a cloak, to hide the emptiness that now had become of him. And he had contemplated it for hours, days, but the arguments he had prepared to those he intented to leave sounded hollow in his own head, because for him, it came down to one and only thing: he didn’t believe.

He had no belief left in him, not for the new religion that had been spreading like a wildfire through the Imperium, not for his own atonement that would never come. There was only knowledge, of enemy disposition, of his own failures, only the echo of the words that still disrupted his meditation when he was alone and drifted into the void of his own being.

He hadn’t believed the message he had received, though he had been in that place and had seen what had become of that ship.

But that was his own reasoning, and for his brothers he had to make something that had more sense, even though his own disbelief held more sense for him than any evindece.

It turned out to be better than he had imagined, though some of them shook their head, and he couldn’t meet their too-knowing eyes. He wanted to leave his armour to the one who was meant to replace him, but they furiuosly refused to take it and his sword. He didn’t insist.

They let him go with blessings that he didn’t need. He was leaving them for his personal Crusade.

And since then, he had been moving, on a borrowed ship, from one rumour to another, from one theory to another, chasing false traces like a mad hound. Maybe he was mad, after all.

He had dove into the warp many times, and it had tempted him with visions, dreams, with the voice that he hadn’t heard for so long, with the face he ached to see again, but he knew it all to be lies. He just knew.

He had lost count to the days and the paths dropped, ships searched and rumours examined, so that when he saw, he didn’t believe at first.

It was  _him_.

Fighting with vile creatures that made bile rise in Sigismund’s throat at the sight of them, his glorious armour torn to pieces and patched with scraps of ceramite and metal, wielding a chainsword, too small for his hands. His white hair turned black from ichor and foul-smelling blood, his face was covered with gore and caked mud, but it was him, his dark eyes blazing with determination and fury, and the ruins of several ships, merged together in the too-silent bay of the warpstorm, blurred for a moment before Sigismund’s eyes.

He blinked and raised his sword, heavy from his fighting through this ruins, and stepped forward, slicing through a black creature with eight spider legs and scorpion tail that had been aimed at his lord.

 _His lord_.

Sigismund felt so light, weariness of countless hours, days, centuries gone in a moment, and he fell into a rhythm of fighting, into meditative state, undisrupted by his failures and his past and his regrets. Together they threw back wave after wave of predators of the warp until a howl of a thousand immaterial throats shook the ruins of the ships, and the lights flickered to life in full.

Only then Sigismund noticed a throbbing pain in his left shoulder and hip, but it was not important.

"My lord…" he croaked, his voice sounding strange to him. He hadn’t talked for so long that he had forgotten how his own voice sounded like.

Rogal Dorn faced him, the chainsword dripping with enemy blood. He didn’t turn the weapon off. And Sigismund didn’t see the light of recognition in his dark stormy eyes.

He took a step forward, raising the whining chainsword. One of the chains had jammed.

Sigismund didn’t back away. Maybe that was how it was supposed to end. He hadn’t seen this face for so long, and if it was the face of his death, so be it. He wouldn’t turn away from it. He felt tired to his bones and thought for a moment that maybe it was some daemon, taking the form of the person he loved and had let down—

"…Sigismund?"

His hands couldn’t hold the black sword anymore, and it fell with a too-loud ringing sound. Sigismund dropped to his knees and covered his head with his hands. He had lost his helmet somewhere along the way.

"My lord."

And he wailed, like a lost child, cried until his voice gave up and darkness swallowed him.

 

He felt warm and at peace, for the first time in so many years, and surfaced from his sleep slowly. He was lying in the circle of arms that he recognised immediately and smiled.

Then slowly, his smile fell.

He whirled around, but his movement was prevented by his sore joints and broked plates of his armour. Something must have given up, and half of the servo motors were not functional.

"Hush, Sigismund," spoke a voice from behind, and those hands that were cradling him tightened for a moment. "How long have you been going without any rest?"

He felt like crying again at the sound of this voice, but didn’t. He needed to turn around. He needed to see.

Sigismund freed himself somewhat and managed a half-turn. And looked into familiar dark eyes that had been disturbing his sleep and thoughts for centures. For  _millennia_.

"It is you," Sigismund breathed out.

He was leaning on a wall and looked so very tired, Sigismund had never seen him like this, and it took Sigismund’s breath away, and he gripped his shoulders, although he couldn’t properly flex his fingers.

"It is you," he repeated, choked.

Rogal Dorn smiled at him — a sight Sigismund thought he would never be able to see again.

"It is I," he replied simply.

Sigismund bowed his head. “I searched for you. Never believed that you were—” His breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t say it. “I—  _The Imperium_  needs you, my lord.” He had to stand up, find his ship and return his Primarch— not, not  _his_ , he couldn’t call him like that.

"Do  _you_  need me?” There was a flicker of amusement in that low voice that had settled in Sigismund’s bones, twisting them with the ache that felt purifying and terrible.

"I don’t deserve to need you," he whispered.

"I have been here for so long, but I wasn’t myself until you came."

Then Sigismund was lifted and put on his feet.

"This is yours, I presume."

Still shocked and barely standing, Sigismund looked at the sword, held out from him. He took it with clumpsy hands, and it felt like a revelation, only that Sigismund was too worn out to understand it.

Rogal Dorn looked at him with a smile and took his free hand, removing barely functioning gauntlet. He felt… warm. And alive. Alive. Dirty, and in shattered armour, he was alive.

"Let’s go home," he said.

And the sun had lit up for Sigismund again.

***

[Inquisitor Curio’s postscriptum:

 _Apparently, this is an excerpt from a romance novel, but… Astartes vessel? Maybe an example of Space Marines lore? Black Temlars are famous for their ritual and romantic poetry, but I’ve never encountered anything like this._ ]

[Inquisitor Tendil’s note:

 _Curio, it’s just a bad romance novel, you’ve seen plenty of these, I’m sure of it. There is a thousand possible explanations to why it had been on a Space Marines ship. Don’t be a fool._ ]

**Author's Note:**

> [One of the examples](http://adepta-astarte.tumblr.com/post/111041849791/i-should-post-some-of-the-random-shit-i-have-lying) of Black Templars' poetry.


End file.
